


Louder Than Any Voice

by LearnedFoot



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Protective Mute, Protectiveness, first handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 05:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26347708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: Three times the Mute keeps Diarmuid safe.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 22
Kudos: 96
Collections: We Die Like Fen 4: We Lived to Die Afen





	Louder Than Any Voice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [textbookchoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookchoices/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy <3

_1._

It started with Diarmuid chasing a rabbit.

Stupid. So stupid. But they’ve been surviving on nothing but berries and bark for days, ever since the supplies the villagers gave them ran out, and the Mute was off relieving himself, and when Diarmuid saw the rabbit he thought, he thought—

Well, he hadn’t thought, really, that was the problem. He acted, running like a child in a game, like he was back home where the worst that could happen was a twisted ankle, forgetting for a moment everything he has learned about the cruelty of the world in the last weeks.

And now he’s staring at a bear. An angry bear, a mother, probably, rearing on her hind legs and roaring.

This bear is not happy to see him.

He remains stock still, hands flexing as he whispers a desperate prayer under his breath. He cannot believe this. After everything—losing everyone, losing the relic, almost losing the Mute, _surviving_ , nursing the Mute to health, relearning hope, _everything_ —this is how it ends: a single stupid mistake, and nature’s revenge.

Perhaps God has not forgiven him for the relic. Perhaps this is his fate for daring to carry it. For thinking himself worthy. Or for Geraldus.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I was just trying to do what I thought best. Please, _please_ —” 

The bear growls and lunges forward, too fast to escape even if Diarmuid could make his legs to move, which he cannot. He closes his eyes to his fate, forcing himself not to scream, to accept God’s will—

Something hits him from the side, throwing him to the ground and rolling. Strong arms around him, hot breath against his face—the Mute.

“Thank God,” Diarmuid says, meaning it down to his core: thank the Lord for his kindness and his mercy. His mouth fills with dirt and leaves as they continue to roll; the breath is knocked out of him when they hit a tree. But he’s safe, sheltered—the pain is immaterial. He attempts to catch enough air to say a proper thank you to his Earthly savior, but before the words can form the Mute is gone, running back at the bear, sword drawn. His howl is louder than that of the beast.

It’s over before Diarmuid can even struggle to his feet: a stab to the gut, a slash across the throat, and the bear is staggering, lashing out, falling, fallen, gone.

The Mute looks over at Diarmuid. His face is splattered with blood, but there is no sign of battle madness in his eyes, only satisfaction. It is a look that says Diarmuid is alive, the Mute’s work is done.

“Thank you.” Diarmuid’s voice waivers. Oh—it’s because he’s shaking. “I—thank you. I shouldn’t have run off.”

The Mute shrugs, then wipes his face, smearing the blood into grotesque streaks. It makes him look like some sort of demon out of a nightmare.

“If I did not know you, you’d be a frightening sight right now,” Diarmuid says, voice a little steadier. He forces himself to smile and is relieved when the Mute returns it. “There was a river not far back. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

***

The Mute watches with a blank expression as Diarmuid rips a length of fabric from the bottom of his robe, dips it in the running stream, and lifts it to his bloodied face. He does not flinch at the cold of the water on his cheek or pull away at the scrub of rough weave on skin. He lets Diarmuid touch him, tilting his head this way and that when instructed, passive as a lamb.

It’s amazing how gentle he is, except when he is not.

“All done,” Diarmuid declares when the blood is gone. He wrings the cloth out, folds it, then puts it into the pack that used to hold their food and now holds only a few nuts that they are saving for true emergency. “Oh, wait—”

There is still a single speck of blood beneath the Mute’s right ear. Diarmuid licks his thumb, using the wet finger to rub the offending flakes away. This time the Mute reacts—just a small hitch in his breath, as if he is surprised. Diarmuid draws back and is met with eyes gone dark.

“I’m sorry,” he says, though he is not quite sure what for. “I shouldn’t have—”

The Mute huffs, air rumbling from his chest the way it always does when he’s amused. He shakes his head, then grabs Diarmuid’s hand and places it where it had been a moment before, on the side of his neck. He opens his mouth, looking for all the world like he wishes to say something, then closes it again and pulls away, standing in a fluid motion.

Diarmuid gapes at him. He has no idea how to interpret that, which he hates. He can normally understand the Mute—it is what allowed them to become so such close companions. But this? He cannot begin to guess. Does not even know if he should ask, or what the question would be if he did. 

Instead, he shoulders their pack—which the Mute only began allowing him to carry once it emptied into no extra weight at all—and sets off in the direction they think is home.

***

They walk late that night, until Diarmuid starts stumbling in the dark, tripping over his own feet in weariness or hunger. It would have been nice if he’d caught the rabbit instead of finding the bear.

But at least their luck picks up: they discover a small cave to shelter in, free of animals and warmer than another night on damp leaves. The Mute gets a fire going, shooing Diarmuid off when he tries to help, practically shoving him onto the ground. By the time the flames turn the cave from warm to sweltering, Diarmuid is half asleep.

Not for the first time on their journey, Diarmuid feels a little useless. The Mute is the one who nearly died just weeks ago; he should not have to rescue Diarmuid and keep him warm on top of that.

It is that thought that gives Diarmuid the inspiration to curl against the Mute’s back when they lay down for the night. Hesitantly, he wraps his arms around the Mute’s broad body, one arm slipping under his neck, the other over his chest, holding him close. Diarmuid is not sure exactly what he means to achieve, only that he has childhood memories of finding it a comfort to be held, and the far more recent memory of the Mute pressing Diarmuid’s hand against his neck, as if he wanted his touch. So maybe—

He feels the Mute stiffen in his arms. But then, when Diarmuid does not let go, he relaxes, sinking into the embrace.

“Thank you,” Diarmuid whispers against his ear. “For keeping me safe.”

The Mute twists his head, his beard briefly brushing against Diarmuid’s lips before their eyes meet. The Mute’s are so dark they reflect the flickering of the fire. He nods, once, brief and sharp.

That, Diarmuid can read clearly. It means: _always._

_2._

Diarmuid thinks of that moment—the flicker of light in the Mute’s eye and the affirmation clear as words—the first time he kisses the Mute.

It’s almost a year later, on the sands of the beach by the monastery. Home, where they were welcomed back with open arms, unbelievably forgiven for their failures. Home, where Diarmuid has tried to sink into the routine of daily life and shake off the ache of loss and knowledge, the anger that plagues his dreams. Home, where once he found peace in God and his brothers, but now finds he does not fit as he remembers.

(The only place he fits these days is in the Mute’s arms, on the nights he feels daring or lonely or afraid enough to crawl into his friend’s bed, sneaking away in the morning before the brothers wake and discover them.)

Home is not home anymore. Only the Mute feels like peace now. That is why Diarmuid kisses him. That, the taste of sea salt in the whipping air, and the wildness that always overcomes him when he feels a storm approaching.

The Mute kisses back, gentle as Diarmuid is insistent, steady as he is eager. A solid rock, drinking in Diarmuid’s passion, hands cupping his face, pulling him closer, holding him secure against the tide of his own desire.

When they break apart, Diarmuid feels himself shaking harder than he did that day with the bear. He is at least as frightened, too. But the Mute protected him then, and he will now. Diarmuid knows that deeper than he knows anything. Deeper maybe even than he knows God.

He should not think that, but he does.

“I don’t want to stay here,” he says, lifting his voice to be heard against the battering of waves against the shore. “I do not think I belong here anymore.”

The Mute blinks at him, hands still stuck on either side of his face. He does not move, impassive, waiting for more. Waiting for instruction.

“Will you leave with me? I do not know where we will go, but please—I want you with me.”

The Mute kisses him again, and that means _always_ , too.

_3._

Three weeks later, they find themselves in another cave, warmed by another fire. This time they have food, too. Diarmuid’s brothers were sad to see him go, but not as surprised as he thought they would be. Not as insulted, either. The Abba had written to a cousin—odd to think of him as having a cousin, or any family outside the Brotherhood, really—who lives in a far fishing village where able bodies are always welcome. That is their destination.

But food is not on Diarmuid’s mind in this moment, and neither is the Abba’s cousin or their future home. All he can think of is the burn of the Mute’s lips against his and the aching need between his legs. That hardness is there every time they kiss like this, Diarmuid in the Mute’s lap, arms around his shoulders as the Mute holds him steady with large, warm palms across his back.

Diarmuid has not asked for more, because he knows it would be sin. But this, too, is sin, and God has not struck him dead yet. He is tired of waiting.

A fleeting flicker of the fear he felt facing down that bear dances across him memory: the moment he was sure God had decided to punish him. And then he had lived, because of the Mute. God had sent him as a protector. 

It’s an excuse, probably. Something he will have to ponder and worry over later—not now. Now is for surging forward, pressing their bodies flush for the first time. Now is letting the Mute feel what he does to Diarmuid, sure he will not recoil in disgust, no matter how blasphemous it is. Now is being met with a whimper, the Mute’s hands tightening against Diarmuid’s robes.

“Please,” Diarmuid whispers, pants, _begs_. “Please, I need—I don’t know. But you know, don’t you? _Please_.”

The Mute pulls away to search Diarmuid’s face, as if he is not sure he heard correctly.

“Please,” Diarmuid repeats. “I mean it. Please take care of me?”

That does it. The Mute melts, pulling Diarmuid into a gentle embrace, teeth skimming his neck, hovering just below his ear. A light nip, a flick of the tongue, and Diarmuid is drowning in pleasure.

“Oh,” he gasps, and then “ _Oh_ ” as the Mute sucks harder. And then they’re falling, together, controlled, the Mute stretching out and bringing Diarmuid with him until they are body-to-body on the ground.

That gets another “ _Oh_.”

The Mute keeps sucking, his hands exploring, groping along Diarmuid’s back, down lower, cupping his ass, pulling him close—

The moment Diarmuid feels the Mute’s hardness rub against his own he almost sees stars. He is not sure how he has the presence of mind to realize it would be even better if there was no clothing between them, but he does, and suddenly he is pulling at the Mute’s pants and the Mute is pulling at his robes and they’re kissing so roughly their teeth knock together but Diarmuid doesn’t care because nothing has ever felt as good as this. And the Mute is still undressing him so he must not care either, and—

And then somehow they are both naked, and for a moment they are not touching, either. Not intentional—just the simple consequence of Diarmuid drawing back to pull his robe over his head while the Mute moved away to kick off his pants. And yet, it is what has happened: they are kneeling, naked and apart. All Diarmuid can hear is the sound of their panting and the thud of his heart in his ears. 

He should be afraid of what they are doing. Of what comes next. For his soul. But the Mute is staring back at him with the reflection of fire in his eyes.

All he feels is love.

“You’re going to keep me safe, right?” he whispers.

The Mute shuffles forward on his knees and leans in, pressing forehead against forehead, until Diarmuid’s entire world becomes those dark eyes. The Mute’s callused fingers, slick with the wetness that has sprung between them, wrap around Diarmuid’s length. He begins to stroke, and Diarmuid forgets how to breath.

The answer is written in the moment. Shouted, louder than any voice ever could, in the movement of the Mute’s wrist, in the rasping pants that fills the cave, in the pleasure he rips from Diarmuid’s body. In everything about him, about them, about the way the world collapses into nothing but hand and skin and the closeness of their beings:

 _Always_.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is loved <3


End file.
